


The Brothers in Arms Raid

by JJJunky



Category: The Rat Patrol, Twelve O'Clock High (1964)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Rat Patrol must keep the Germans from capturing an American Army Air Force officer by whatever means they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brothers in Arms Raid

The Brothers in Arms Raid  
By JJJunky

 

Careful not to spill the beer clutched in his left hand, Sergeant Sam Troy rolled the fingers of his right into a fist. Poised to strike, he was surprised to find it immobilized by someone standing behind him. Taking a last quick swallow of the warm ale, he tossed the remainder over his shoulder into the face of his assailant. With the release of his wrist, he swung the heavy tankard, intending to smash it over his opponent's head. For once, his short stature came in handy as his eyes came parallel with the identity band circling the muscular arm of an MP. He shifted, causing the mug to bounce off a broad chest instead of its original target. The timely arrival of the MPs effectively ended the fight. No one wanted to spend precious leave time in a cell.

"Sergeant Troy?" the MP sergeant asked, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his face.

Letting his eyes roam around the partially destroyed bar in search of his team, Troy acknowledged, "I'm Troy."

"Colonel Wilson ordered me to escort you and your men to his office."

"Do we have time to clean up?" Troy inquired, noting the blood dripping from a cut over Hitch's eye.

"No."

Though he'd expected the reply, Troy was disappointed. He smelled like a brewery. He was sticky and uncomfortable from spilled beer -- the incident that had started the fight with the flyboys in the first place. Though badly outnumbered, his men had fought valiantly. Despite their daring, however, the outcome had been inevitable until the arrival of the MPs. He was almost glad Wilson had sent for them.

Troy led the way from the dark, cavern-style room and into the bright desert sunlight. The oppressive heat made it difficult to breathe. Intelligent beings found a cool hole to climb into at this time of day. Troy was well aware that anyone who expected intelligence from the Army was in for a big disappointment.

Pulling his Australian bush hat lower to shade his eyes, Troy walked slowly through the quiet Arab town. He'd been in the desert long enough to know that moving quickly in this kind of heat only landed you in the hospital. Still, he was relieved when they finally reached their destination. The building housing Army Headquarters in this sector was modest but cool. Trapped by thick adobe walls, the cold night air usually lingered until late afternoon.

Sweat ran down his back as Troy climbed the stairs. Pausing only long enough to apply a perfunctory knock to the panel door, he entered Wilson's office. He came to attention in front of the desk and saluted. "Sergeant Troy reporting as ordered, sir."

"At ease," Wilson impatiently ordered Troy and the three men who had followed their team leader's actions. Dismissing the MPs, the colonel turned to the remaining occupant of the small room. "Pres, these are the men I was telling you about. This is the Rat Patrol."

*****

US Army Colonel Preston Gallagher studied the four men in front of him. It was easy to see where they'd been and what they'd been doing. Though none of the men appeared intoxicated, the distinctive odor of beer scented the air. Bruises had appeared on the faces of the sergeant sporting the Scots Grey beret and one of privates. Blood was visible from beneath the red French Foreign Legion hat of the other private. This was the famous Rat Patrol? The men he was entrusting with his brother's life?

"Sorry to cut your leave short, Troy," Wilson said, his words signaling that his relationship with these men was different than one usually found between officers and non-coms.

"Actually," Moffitt admitted, his accent indicating he might have come by his beret through legitimate channels, "your request couldn't have been more fortuitous. We were rather badly outnumbered."

"You ought to be accustomed to that by now," kidded Wilson.

Despite his concern, Gallagher found himself intrigued by the unit. Less than ten minutes ago, he'd believed only half of the stories he had heard about their exploits. Now, he had a feeling he'd misjudged them.

"What's the job, Colonel?" Troy demanded, his piercing gaze openly studying Gallagher.

"I'll let Pres brief you," Wilson said, sitting back in his chair. "He's more familiar with the details."

Sitting on the edge of the desk, Gallagher asked, "Do you know what a shuttle raid is?"

"Isn't that where bombers hit a target then fly on to another base, reload, and bomb a target on their way back to their own airfield?" Moffitt detailed.

"Three days ago," Gallagher said, nodding to show his satisfaction with the Englishman's description, "the 918th Bomb Group hit a target in France on the first leg of a three-prong raid. Yesterday, they left Russia and bombed a chemical plant in Romania."

"What has that got to do with us?" Troy demanded.

"The last leg was to take them from over a submarine pen in France, then back to their base in England." Gallagher sighed and gently rubbed his throbbing temple. "Enemy fighters attacked over the Mediterranean. The lead aircraft was badly damaged. The pilot was able to bail out most of his crew near the coast. According to the co-pilot, they were losing altitude quickly. Too fast, as it turns out, to allow the entire crew to bail out. The pilot, the flight engineer, and the tail gunner didn't have time to jump."

Rising to his feet, Preston crossed to the map mounted on the wall. Pointing to a desolate area in the middle of the desert, he said, "We believe the aircraft went down somewhere in this area. It didn't have enough fuel to go any further. We want you to find the remaining crew and bring them out."

"Before I risk the lives of my men," Troy insisted, undaunted by the other man's rank, "I want to know why. What makes these three men so special?"

"Only one of them is important," admitted Gallagher. "The pilot. Before they took off, he was entrusted with some vital information concerning a joint Soviet-Allied mission. We can't afford to let the details fall into enemy hands."

Troy suspiciously regarded the other man. "What's this pilot's name?"

"Colonel Joseph A. Gallagher," Pres revealed, defiantly raising his head and catching the sergeant's eyes with his own. "My little brother."

After exchanging a quick glance with Moffitt, Troy warned, "This better be legit, Colonel."

"Maybe this will convince you, Sergeant." Gallagher crossed to a window and stared out onto the quiet street below. "The information my brother has can't be allowed to fall into enemy hands. One way or another, it's your job to make certain it doesn't."

*****

Joe Gallagher angrily threw his makeshift shovel to the ground. Such a waste of a young life. Reilly had survived enemy fighter attacks and a plane crash only to be suffocated by his own aircraft. He'd crawled under the wing looking for a shady place to take a nap when the weakened structure collapsed. By the time Gallagher and Komansky had dug him out, he was dead. The hole became his grave.

Cradling his broken arm, Gallagher cautiously sat down to rest. He'd already been scorched by the superheated metal of his ship. He had no desire to repeat the experience. It had become painfully obvious this wasn't a land that suffered fools lightly.

Komansky dropped out of the waist gunner's window gasping for air. The sun-baked interior of the plane resembled an oven. His face flushed and dripping with sweat, he sat beside his superior. "I got all the food, water, and medical supplies," he listed, pointing to the duffel bag at his feet. "Anything else we need?"

"Did you destroy the bombsight?" Gallagher asked, his professional responsibility taking priority over his personal needs.

"Myers did it before he bailed out."

"Good man," praised Gallagher. "I hope they made it."

Grabbing a handful of sand, Komansky let it sift through his fingers. "When do you want to leave?"

"As soon as it starts to cool off," Gallagher decided, shading his eyes from the blinding sun.

"I still think you should stay here and let me go for help," argued Komansky. "That arm's going to make it rough on you."

"We go together or we don't go at all, Sergeant." Gallagher laid back to try and take a nap. "It's too dangerous out there alone."

Sad eyes resting on the new grave, Komansky whispered, "It's not too safe here, either."

*****

Troy studied the crash site, being careful to keep the angle of his binoculars turned away from the sun. A single ray flashing on the lens could give away their position. There wasn't any movement around the Fortress. He didn't want to speculate what that might mean. Even though he didn't know Joseph Gallagher, Troy had been impressed with Preston. He'd known the feeling of utter helplessness when a younger brother's life was in danger. He'd almost lost his little brother, David, to a vengeful enemy. It had probably almost killed Preston when he had been forced to issue a dead-or-alive order on his own brother. It was why Troy was determined to do everything in his power to reunite the siblings -- even if it endangered his life.

Judging it safe to proceed, Troy slid down the hill to the waiting jeeps. Pumping his arm, he ordered, "Let's shake it."

Hitch sifted into gear and drove up to his superior. Troy climbed into the passenger seat and held onto the 50mm gun barrel as the private stepped on the gas.

As they drew closer to the fallen bird, Troy saw the tracks that told him they weren't the first to find the wreckage. The distinctive tread marks of a halftrack led deeper into the desert.

The jeeps pulled into position, poised for a quick getaway. Tugging off the cover, Tully climbed behind the Browning on the back of his vehicle and alertly scanned the area. His archeological background having taught him to read the sand the way someone else might read a book, Moffitt studied the tracks.

While Hitch slowly circled the massive aircraft, Troy slipped inside the crushed fuselage. The super-heated air burned his lungs. Careful not to touch the metal structure, he made his way to the cockpit. He was encouraged when he encountered no bodies on his journey. As he prepared to exit the control center and retrace his steps, a shout from outside brought his head up sharply against the unyielding frame.

"Hey, Sarge," Hitch repeated his call. "I found something."

Rubbing the lump that was already forming on the back of his head, Troy hurried to escape the stifling aircraft. He emerged into the bright sun, his singed lungs gasping for air. Compared to where he'd been, the breeze that swirled gently around him felt almost cool.

"You all right, Sarge?"

Irritated by Hitch's question, Troy gently massaged his head. "What did you find?"

The young private led his superior around the tail to the collapsed wing. Bending down, he pointed to the disturbed sand. "It looks like a grave to me."

"Find out whose," Troy ordered, his own pain forgotten.

"Aw, Sarge," Hitch protested, revulsion twisting the youthful features.

As Moffitt joined his colleagues, his eyes rested briefly on the grave before quickly shifting to Troy's face. "I found two sets of footprints heading southeast. The Germans are following the trail."

His expression brightening, Hitch suggested, "Shouldn't we hurry to catch up?"

"Not until I find out who's buried in that grave," Troy gruffly replied.

His displeasure at his assigned task plainly written on his expressive face, Hitch left to retrieve a shovel from the jeep. Troy stared out across the sands. He could understand the private's distress at desecrating the burial ground. However, he was even more reluctant to risk the lives of his men needlessly. If the dog tags identified the corpse as Gallagher's, their mission was over. If not, then it had just begun.

*****

Komansky shaded his eyes, hoping to see something in the empty expanse. There was no shade, nowhere to hide from the heat of the relentless sun. They'd run out of water early that morning. There hadn't been much to begin with. Normally, it wasn't considered as essential item on B-17's. Weight was reserved for bombs and ammunition. Gallagher was already showing signs of dehydration. Dried lips had cracked and bled. He'd become lethargic and confused. In between bouts of vomiting, he was obviously suffering severe cramps. Yet, he never acknowledged his discomfort, just continued to trustingly follow his sergeant.

The land danced, making Komansky feel dizzy. He longed for the green fields of England. If he ever made it back, he would never complain about the weather again. He'd give a year's pay for just one of the brief rain showers the island was famous for. Anything to relieve this oppressing heat.

A rumbling noise penetrated his dulled senses. Pulling to a stop, he slowly turned to face this new threat -- uncertain if there would be one. He no longer trusted his mental faculties.

Unfamiliar machines lumbered across the desert toward him. He watched and wondered if they were real or illusion. It wasn't until the swastika on the lead vehicle's hood became visible that he believed his eyes. Even a heat-affected mind wouldn't conjure up a German rescue party.

The halftracks drew steadily closer. Komansky didn't try to run. One arm circling his colonel's swaying figure, he waited. There was nowhere to escape to.

*****

Hitch threw a last shovelful of sand onto the grave. Crawling back to the tail, he vomited until here was nothing left to purge. Several painful cramps gripped his empty stomach before he finally regained a semblance of control. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he took a deep breath.

He'd seen more than his share of dead and mutilated bodies in this war. It had hardened him to a point where death had become meaningless -- or so he thought. The body had been neatly wrapped in a parachute before it had been placed in the hole. When Hitch had unwrapped it, sand flies had blown up into his face. Fighting the instinctive panic and the almost overwhelming stench, he'd pulled down the body's jumpsuit zipper so he could read the dog tags. The metal had burned his thumb and forefinger, leaving its imprint. The crushing desire to complete his task as quickly as possible allowed him to rewrap the body and return it to its grave. Only then did he succumb to his own physical and emotional needs.

Rising to his feet, Hitch stumbled around the fuselage to his jeep. He ignored Troy and Moffitt who were studying a map on the hood of the other jeep, and poured himself a cup of water. The liquid soothed his dry mouth and throat, but it couldn't dispel the stench from his nostrils or the taste of vomit from his lips.

"Who's in the grave?" Troy impatiently demanded, his hooded gaze resting on his driver.

Gently fingering the welt on his thumb, Hitch resentfully replied, "Reilly."

"How did he die?" inquired Moffitt, folding the map and putting it back inside its case.

"I don't know," Hitch admitted. "All I did was look at his dog tags and cover him back up."

"Reilly isn't our concern," Troy reminded his men. "Gallagher is still out there. So, let's shake it."

Hitch reluctantly climbed behind the wheel of his jeep. His stomach was churning again. Only this time it was with anger, not revulsion. To him, Reilly wasn't an inconvenience who had cost them time. He was a boy whose life had been cut too short to soon, buried in grave no one would ever find once the sands shifted. It rankled that Troy didn't see that.

*****

The throbbing in his arm competed for attention with the pounding in his head. As he tried to distance the pain, Gallagher became more aware of his surroundings. Though it wasn't exactly cool, it wasn't as hot as it had been. The sun no longer beat on him with unrelenting zeal. Curious about what could've brought about these changes, he forced his swollen eyelids open. The faded gray-green canvas, identifying the enclosure as a tent, greeted his seeking gaze. Unwilling to cause himself more pain, he carefully turned his head. Narrow cots, each one filled with a wounded soldier stretched along both sides of the structure.

"Welcome, Colonel."

His curiosity making him forget his limitations, Gallagher turned to confront the speaker. Pain blazed across his body like a thunderbolt, making him nauseous.

"Easy, Colonel." A hand gently rested on his shoulder. "You don't want to move too suddenly. Along with the broken arm, you sustained several cracked ribs. You're also suffering from severe dehydration. If you follow my instructions, the dizziness and headache should go away in a few days."

Despite his desire to study his advisor, Joe kept his eyes closed. When he finally felt more in control, he reopened them. The young man standing beside his bed smiled down at him in encouragement. A lock of dark blond hair fell across the broad forehead, giving him a rakish look. Contrary to what the bloodstained white coat suggested, Joe saw compassion and concern in the hazel eyes. In his experience those emotions were not usually associated with the uniform he could see under the lab coat. "Where am I?"

"In a German prisoner of war detention hospital. You were found wandering in the desert two days ago."

"Where's my sergeant?" Frantically turning his head to search the nearest cot, Joe caused himself needless discomfort. An involuntary groan escaped his lips. He closed his eyes to shut out the spinning room.

"Sergeant Komansky was also suffering from dehydration," the doctor softly explained, drawing his patient's attention away from the pain. "His case wasn't as severe. I suspect you only pretended to drink when he gave you water."

"I knew there was something wrong inside," Joe confided, gently inspecting the bandage around his ribcage with the tips of his fingers. "I didn't want to lessen Sandy's chances."

"Am I right in assuming that if he knew what you'd done, he'd be upset?"

"He'd be furious."

The hint of an accent crept into the low voice. "It is most unusual to see a sergeant so concerned about his superior. The guards had to physically drag him from your side."

"Komansky is an unusual sergeant."

"You Americans often do the unexpected. This has always fascinated me."

Now that is anxiety for his subordinate had been satisfied, Gallagher's curiosity concerning his own situation returned. "Your English is very good, Doctor . . .?"

"Gerasch," the physician obligingly provided. "I trained in the States. I was in my final year of residency at John Hopkins when I received my draft notice."

"Did you want to fight for the Third Reich?"

"No."

"Then why didn't you seek asylum?"

A frown wrinkled the smooth brow. "My parents and my little sisters were still in Germany. If I had not returned, they would've been considered enemies of the state."

Finding the conversation was keeping his mind off his discomfort, Gallagher probed, "They're all right, then?"

"I don't know." Gerasch's voice broke as he admitted, "My family lives in Cologne."

Gallagher's imagination flashed a picture of the firestorm that had practically consumed the old city. "I'm sorry."

"The Americans did not start this war," Gerasch conceded. "Nor did the English."

"It doesn't matter who started it. It's the innocent who suffer."

"Aren't you being a bit disingenuous, Colonel?" an unfamiliar voice observed. "Considering your job?"

Turning his head slowly, Gallagher's eyes rested on a tall, slimly built, German officer. "I wasn't on that mission to Cologne, Captain."

"Maybe not that particular mission," the captain said, "but you have bombed the city. Yes?"

"Yes," Joe reluctantly admitted.

"You see, Harti," the captain turned his attention to the doctor. "Not all Americans are saints."

Ignoring his friend, Gerasch appealed to his patient. "You have to forgive Captain Dietrich. His experience dealing with your countrymen has not been as pleasant as my own."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Gallagher facetiously replied, his eyes never wavering under the fierce stare of the unhappy captain.

The first to look away, Dietrich took his frustration out on the physician. "You do have other patients, Harti. A few are your own countrymen. I suggest you give them some of your valuable attention."

"Of course, Hans," Gerasch contritely agreed.

"Wait," Joe put a hand on the doctor's arm, preventing him from leaving. "What's going to happen to me and my sergeant?"

Thought the question wasn't addressed to him, Dietrich chose to reply. "As soon as you are released, you'll join your sergeant in the compound. A transport is expected in four days. It will take you to Germany where you'll be interned for the remainder of the war."

As the two men walked away, Joe's gaze followed. There weren't any guards stationed inside the hospital. There didn't need to be. The only place to escape to was the desert. Gallagher had already encountered its inhospitable conditions. He had no desire to repeat the experience.

*****

Hitch could smell the perfume she usually wore, though it was muted and mixed with another odor he couldn't readily identify. It made him feel uneasy. She was covered from head to toe with a silk sheet. Smiling devilishly, he gently tugged on an edge of the covering. When it didn't immediately slide off, he sighed with disappointment and pulled harder. It sill refused to yield. Grabbing a fistful of the slippery material, he pulled with all his strength. The shroud suddenly came loose, making him stumble backwards. Instead of seeing the beautiful figure of Susan Billings, he was staring in horror at the disintegrating corpse of Sergeant Ted Reilly. Maggots crawled across accusing eyes. A bony hand lifted, reaching for him. Hitch tried to run, but his feet were tangled in the silk parachute. All he could do was cry out in fear and regret.

"Hitch, wake up!"

The dream receded to the edge of his consciousness, poised like a cat ready to spring as soon as his guard was down. Pushing away the hand that was shaking his shoulder, Hitch grumbled, "I'm awake, Tully."

"You tryin' ta bring the whole German Army down on top of us?" Tully demanded, sitting back on his heels.

Light from the quarter moon penetrated the deep wadi and illuminated his friend's puzzled face. Even if he'd wanted to, Hitch knew he couldn't explain his outburst. "Sorry," he said, sitting up and leaning against the wheel of the jeep. Crossing his arms over his knees, he laid his forehead against them.

"I came down to tell ya, Troy and Moffitt are returin'," Tully revealed when it became clear he would get no further explanation from the younger man. "Ya better hope the sarge didn't hear ya."

Hitch continued to hide his face from the perceptive eyes. "I don't care if he did."

"What the hell's going on here?" Troy demanded in a harsh whisper. "We could hear you a half a mile away."

"Nothing," Hitch succinctly replied, keeping his head buried in his arms.

"Just because I have more important things to worry about right now," Troy angrily conceded, "don't think I won't be asking that question again. Next time, you better have an answer for me, Private."

Though he was chilled to the bone, Hitch was grateful that their proximity to the enemy prevented them from building a fire. If he avoided the dim light of the moon, no one would see his shaking hands or his despair. With all the horror he'd see in this war, he thought he'd become invulnerable to its effects. It was a dangerous time to suddenly discover he was still human.

"The tracks led up to the German encampment," Troy said, his displeasure momentarily forgotten. "It appears to be a transit station with somewhere around a hundred prisoners."

Tully rolled a matchstick to the side of his mouth. "How we gonna find one man in that mob?"

"Gallagher's rank should make it easier," observed Moffitt. "I don't suppose they've captured any other Air Corps colonels out here."

"It's still going to be a hell of a search."

"It'll be easier from the inside. That's why Troy and Hitch are going to get themselves captured in the morning."

This information brought Hitch's head up. "Why?"

"As Moffitt said, it'll be easier and safer." Troy pulled a blanket from the jeep and wrapped it around his shoulders. "They'll be looking for someone who wants to break out, not in."

"What about getting Gallagher out?"

"That's not our main objective. Our primary mission is to see that the Germans are unable to interrogate him."

Hitch picked up a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers. "What if it's already too late?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Throwing down the remaining sand, Hitch angrily pointed out, "We could be risking our lives for nothing. What if he's spilled the beans and Moffitt and Tully can't get us out? We could spend the duration in a German POW camp."

"Fortunes of war."

*****

Dietrich pushed aside the remains of his breakfast. The heat had already robbed him of his appetite. His years in North Africa had given him a love-hate relationship for the desert. Its beauty couldn't be denied. Nor could its treachery.

Though the heat generally depleted his energy, he felt restless this morning. His brief conversations with the American colonel had filled him with unease. Even injured, lying helpless in a hospital bed, an aura of danger surrounded the man. Dietrich was honest enough to know the animosity he'd unleashed was actually fear. Not necessarily for himself, but for Harti Gerasch. His friend was young and vulnerable, easily swayed by a glib tongue. Easily hurt by an unfriendly overture.

"Captain?"

His lieutenant's call drew Dietrich from his unhappy thoughts. Grateful for the distraction, he invited, "Come in."

Waves of heat followed the lieutenant into the tent. "A patrol has picked up two men wandering in the desert."

"Seems to be a lot of that the last few days. Bring them to me," Dietrich ordered. As he anticipated the prisoners' arrival, he dared to hope they could shed some light on the mysterious colonel.

When the two men entered, he realized he should have expected it. He knew the shock showed on his face as he encountered the captives, but he could do nothing to disguise it. On the heels of his surprise came fear. "Where are the other two?" He addressed his lieutenant, though his gaze never wavered from Troy and Hitchcock.

"There were no others," the officer confirmed.

"What about their jeep?"

"They were on foot, Captain."

Dietrich walked around the table to stand in front of Troy. "Do you expect me to believe your capture was a fortuitous accident?"

"It certainly wasn't for us," Hitch complained, snapping his gum.

Ignoring the remark, Dietrich stared into Troy's shielded eyes. "Why are you here, Sergeant?"

"This is a detention camp, Captain," Troy insolently pointed out. "Where else would you take us?"

Dietrich continued to regard the intelligent face for a few minutes before reluctantly turning away. "Release them into the compound, Lieutenant, then double the guard."

"Why?" the inexperienced officer asked. "Even if they escape, there's nowhere to go but into the desert."

"Not for these men." Dietrich shook his head. "Their friends are still out there. Once they have what they want, they'll try to escape."

"What do they want?"

"I wish I knew."

*****

Troy sat on the ground next to Hitch. He knew Dietrich was watching them. Bending his head, he tried to look bored as he let his fingers sift through the sand. "Any luck?"

"The highest rank I found was a captain," said Hitch. Stretching out on the ground beside his superior, he pulled his French Foreign Legion hat down. It would shield his eyes from the sun and his lips from prying eyes.

His slight frame almost shaking with his frustration, Troy growled, "We've got to find him. Time is running out."

"So what else is new?"

Troy glanced sharply at the private. While Hitch was often insubordinate with officers, he rarely extended his contempt to include his sergeant. Recently, however, all that seemed have changed. Troy couldn't pinpoint the moment the alteration had occurred, he only knew that it had -- and that it hurt. Which was a surprising development in itself. He'd always prided himself on his independence. It was a shock to discover how important the younger man's opinion of him had become.

"I need to get out of this sun," Hitch announced, climbing to his feet. "If you have any more brilliant ideas, be sure to let me know."

Choking back an angry retort, Troy's eyes followed the other man as he entered the tent they'd been assigned. Disgusted with his own ineffectiveness, Troy decided it was time to find out what the trouble was between him and his driver. Rising to his feet, he brushed the sand from his pants. Pulling the canvas flap aside, he slowly stepped into the shadowy interior. It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they did, he was surprised to see Hitch with his arms bend behind his back by a young Air Force sergeant. Troy immediately realized who the man must be. Offering his hand, he soothed, "It's all right, Komansky. You can let Hitch go."

"Who are you?" Sandy demanded, tightening his grip. "How do you know who I am and why are you looking for the skipper?"

Ruefully realizing they hadn't been as subtle as they thought, Troy softly explained, "We've been sent to rescue Colonel Gallagher." With Hitch's life held in the powerful hands, Troy wasn't about to reveal the complete nature of their mission.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Sergeant Troy and the man you're holding is Private Hitchcock. We're half of what's called the Rat Patrol."

The hold eased. "Where's the other half?"

"Waiting to break us out." Troy kept the explanation as general as possible.

"Who sent you?"

"Colonel Preston Gallagher."

"The skipper's brother?" gasped Komansky. Releasing his prisoner, he crossed to Troy's side. "You're going to take the colonel back to our lines?"

Rather than reveal the alternative, Troy nodded. "That's the plan. Where is he?"

"In the hospital," Komansky eagerly revealed. "He broke his arm and some ribs when we crashed. Then he got dehydrated during our little trek across the desert."

His brow creasing with concern, Troy asked, "Is he well enough to travel?"

"It doesn't matter if he is or not," Komansky insightfully observed. "There isn't any alternative."

"There's one," Troy softly whispered.

*****

Harti mentally reviewed the conversation he'd just had with Gallagher. After three years of dealing with the Nazi mentality, he was finding the American's outlook refreshing. It made him homesick. Not for his family in Cologne, but for his days in medical school. He had to fight the urge to return to Gallagher's bedside to continue their discussion. The doctor in him wouldn't allow it. His patient needed rest.

Disappointed, he resignedly opened a file and recorded the latest treatment afforded his star patient. Paperwork was the bane of his existence.

A familiar sound at the entrance to his tent had him sighing in frustration. "Come in."

"Herr Doktor." A private stepped inside and came to attention. "Captain Dietrich requests your presence in his tent."

"Now?" Gerasch demanded.

"Jawohl, Herr Doktor."

Wondering if he was going to receive another lecture about the evils of fraternizing with the enemy, Harti rose to his feet. He briefly contemplated replacing his bloodstained coat with a clean one then decided against it. It gave him a perverse delight to see his friend's reaction to his gory garments. It was his only chance to rebel against the strict routine of his duties.

As he followed the private across the compound, Harti let his eyes stray over the tide of humanity cordoned off by the high fences. In the dim light of the setting sun it was difficult to see their expressions. He really didn't need to. He knew what was on the face of his enemy -- anger, humor, frustration. The single common denominator was defiance.

A lamp had already been lit in Dietrich's tent. It guided Harti into the small enclosure. He immediately tensed when he was a Gestapo major sitting in the chair usually occupied by the captain.

"Good evening, Doctor," the officer smoothly greeted him. "I'm Major Hoffman."

Harti furtively glanced at Dietrich. The stone features gave him no clue on how he should respond. Fear infusing him with unneeded adrenaline, he threw up his arm and all but shouted, "Heil Hitler."

"Yes, yes." The major testily returned the salute. "I understand you have a patient by the name of Gallagher?"

"Jawohl, Herr Major," Gerasch nervously acknowledged.

Lightly slapping his gloves against his thigh, Hoffman asked, "Do you realize how important this man is to the Allied offensive?"

"No, sir."

"He commands the 918th Bomb Group. Sometimes, he leads the entire Eighth Air Force. He's privy to most of the Allied campaign strategies, present and future."

Not quite certain what response he was expected to offer, Harti made his own observation. "The colonel is very intelligent."

"Exactly." Hoffman threw the leather gloves on the desk. The resulting clap made his companions flinch. "Then you understand why it's important for me to interrogate him as soon as possible?"

"Of course, Major," Gerasch unhappily agreed, trying to think of some way to save his patient from the torture the Gestapo agent was sure to inflict. "Unfortunately, I gave him a sedative to help him sleep."

"When will it wear off?"

"Not until morning, I'm afraid."

"Can you give him something to make him wake up sooner?"

"No, sir."

"Damn!" Frustration was clearly audible in the deep voice. "You are dismissed, Doctor. I will see you in the morning. Be sure your patient is in condition to talk then."

Harti hadn't needed the threat to know what was expected of him. The Gestapo did not embrace failure. His lie had brought Gallagher a few precious hours. However, the end was inevitable. That brilliant mind and courageous spirit would be broken, destroyed by the very things that made him unique.

*****

Darkness hid Troy from prying eyes. He'd seen the Gestapo major arrive, and he knew who the intended victim would be. He'd waited and watched for Gallagher to be escorted from the hospital to the shiny new vehicle and transported to Gestapo headquarters. For some reason, this had not occurred. While he'd felt a certain amount of relief, Troy was puzzled. The pressure of time sat heavily on his shoulders.

"Troy?" Moffitt's soft whisper drew him closer to the fence.

"Here."

Wire cutters separated the strands of the barrier. Troy urged Hitch through the hole. As he was about to follow, he felt a hand on his arm. He tensed, ready to swing when he recognized the low voice.

"Sergeant," Komansky asked, "would you tell the skipper I'll see him after the war?"

Though he wondered what the chances were of both men surviving the dangerous years ahead, Troy readily agreed. "I'll tell him. Good luck, Sergeant." The flight engineer faded into the shadows without acknowledging the statement. Troy would have liked to have taken Komansky along with them, but it was too risky. He and his men would already have one injured man to look after. Another encumbrance would needlessly stretch their resources.

Troy slipped through the hole without a backward glance and led the way to the hospital. They found Gallagher exactly where Komansky had described. While Hitch and Tully kept their guns trained on the sleeping patients, Troy and Moffitt attempted to awaken the colonel.

Holding a hand over Gallagher's mouth to keep him from crying out, Troy whispered, "We're friends, Colonel. We're here to take you back to our lines."

The head nodded, indicating that Gallagher understood. Removing his hand, Troy helped him sit up. Moffitt had found the colonel's clothes, but they didn't have time for him to dress. Wrapping the injured man in a blanket, Troy kept an arm around his waist to help guide him.

"That's far enough, Sergeant."

Dietrich's order wasn't unexpected. Troy had a feeling their escape was going too smoothly.

"After the major arrived and told me of Colonel Gallagher's importance, I knew he was the reason you allowed yourself to be captured," Dietrich smugly revealed. "I decided to wait and hope the other half of your Rat Patrol would attempt to rescue you. Then, I would capture all of you. As you see, my plan succeeded brilliantly."

A shadowy figure crept up behind the captain, arm raised. A heavy object in its hand came crashing down on the unsuspecting head. Dietrich's eyes rolled back and his knees buckled.

Gallagher pulled away from Troy's support and gripped their rescuer's hand. "Thank you, Harti."

"The major would've taken you away in the morning," Gerasch explained. "You would not have lived. I took an oath to save lives not take them. My oath does not distinguish between nationalities."

"You better come with us, Doc." Troy gestured to the unconscious captain. "You're going to be in trouble when he wakes up."

"I cannot. It would endanger my family."

As gently as he could, Gallagher said, "You realize they may already be dead?"

"Yes." Harti bowed his head. "I cannot leave without knowing for sure."

Though he felt sorry for the courageous doctor, Troy realized they were running out of time. Urging the colonel forward, he suggested, "Let's shake it."

They reached the outskirts of the camp without further incident. Though his injuries made traveling difficult, Gallagher pressed onward until he realized they were a man short. "Where's Sergeant Komansky?"

"Our orders were to bring you back, Colonel," Troy asserted. "Another man would place us in needless jeopardy."

Gallagher stopped walking. "I'm not leaving without Sandy."

"Colonel, my orders also state that if I can't bring you back alive, I'm to make sure you can't talk."

"Then you better shoot, Sergeant, because I'm not going without Sandy."

Troy pulled his pistol and flipped off the safety. So many men had died at his hand. What was one more? The colonel's refusal to continue was tantamount to mutiny. Mutineers received the death penalty.

"Sarge?" Tully's strained voice whispered on the wind.

Moving slowly, Moffitt placed himself between his colleague and the defiant officer. "Troy, you can't do it."

It hadn't taken Moffitt's admonition to bring Troy to his senses. He'd never had any intention of using the weapon he'd drawn, but Gallagher didn't know that. He'd simply hoped to scare the colonel into submission. Disappointed that his ploy hadn't worked, he holstered his gun. "Hitch, Tully, go back and get Komansky. We'll meet you at the jeeps."

*****

Gallagher savored the softness of the bed. American field hospitals were a lot more comfortable than their German counterparts. He frowned as he remembered Harti Gerasch and the conversations they'd enjoyed. The Gestapo wasn't known for its tolerance. Their escape was certain to make trouble for someone. Had it been the homesick young doctor?

"I'd think you'd look a little happier, Dansel," Preston Gallagher admonished, quietly entering the private tent. "Especially considering how close to death you came."

"Seems to me I was in more danger from the men you sent to recue me, Pres," Joe angrily observed.

"They are an unorthodox group."

"I can handle their uniqueness. What I found hard to believe was that my own brother issued a death warrant on me."

His temper spurred by his brother's accusation, Preston reminded, "You had information vital to the war effort. We couldn't allow that to fall into enemy hands."

"I guess I should've realized after our last encounter that your position was more important to you than family."

Clutching his fists, Preston paced the small area in front of the bed. Once he had his temper under a semblance of control, he stopped and faced his brother. "What do you think those bastards would've done to you to get that information? I couldn't let the Gestapo torture you, Dansel. I've see what they're capable of doing. Sometimes, death is preferable."

"You're right," Joe contritely agreed, holding out a placating hand. "I'm sorry, Pres."

"You gotta know, Joe, it wasn't easy."

"I know."

"But, I'd do it again if I had to."

"I know that, too."

A soft breeze cooled his hot skin.

*****

It wouldn't be long before the sun slipped completely below the horizon, making the air feel cold. Troy saw Hitch -- or at least his legs -- sprawled under the hood of their jeep. Tully was changing a tire on the other jeep. Though he was reluctant to do so, Troy knew it was time to have a talk with his driver. Hitch's attitude hadn't improved since their return to headquarters. It was too dangerous to allow the animosity to continue.

Tapping Tully on the shoulder, Troy said, "Moffitt's having dinner in the mess tent. Why don't you keep him company?"

"Sure, Sarge," the private readily agreed, wiping his dirty hands on a rag.

Tory waited until Tully was out of earshot before confronting his driver. "Hitch, come out here. I want to talk to you."

"What about?" came the muffled reply.

"Come out and you'll find out."

"I'm busy."

"That wasn't a request, Private," Troy growled. "It was an order."

His reluctance obvious, Hitch crawled out from under the jeep. Keeping his eyes averted, he snapped, "What is it you wanted, Sergeant?"

"I want to know what's going on with you," Troy demanded. His voice softening, he added, "Why are you so angry?"

Hitch hesitated before finally admitting, "I don't like being treated like I'm expendable."

"We're all considered expendable."

"To the brass," Hitch pointed out. "But not to each other. Even Gallagher was willing to let you shoot him rather than leave Komansky behind in that POW camp."

"And he could've gotten us all killed."

"At least Komansky can't feel he's nonessential," Hitch wistfully noted.

Troy sat on the ground next to the younger man. "What did I do to make you feel you are?"

"Why did you make me dig up that grave?" countered Hitch.

"It had to be done."

"Why?" Hitch demanded again.

Though it had seemed obvious to Troy, he now realized Hitch hadn't recognized the implications the identity of the body had presented. "If the body in that grave had been Gallagher's, our search would've ended there. We would've returned to base."

"You should've told me," Hitch accused. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he said, "I've been having nightmares."

Puzzled, Troy pointed out, "You've seen worse."

"Usually they're strangers. They don't have faces and names."

Troy wasn't sure what to do to comfort the younger man's injured soul. If he'd known how deeply affected the boy was going to be, he'd have done the job himself. "I'm sorry," he apologized, "but this is war. Sometimes, we have to do things we wish we didn't. I can't promise that I won't ask you to dig up another grave."

"Just give me a reason why I'm doing it."

"Agreed." Troy offered his hand to seal the bargain.

After a slight hesitation, Hitch took it, forgetting the grease coating the palm. As his superior stared down at his dirty appendage, Hitch sheepishly noted, "War is hell, Sarge."


End file.
